


missed communication

by redluxite (wordstruck)



Series: VLD One-Shots [34]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: ????????, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Falling In Love, Flirting, Gay Disaster Shiro (Voltron), Hurt/Comfort, Iverson (Voltron) - Freeform, M/M, Mechanic Keith (Voltron), Minor Injuries, Space Pilot Shiro, Unorthodox flirting, does this count as, future setting, idiots in space, sticky notes, very mildest of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:21:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23839033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordstruck/pseuds/redluxite
Summary: Sorry about the stabilizer,he writes with a wince.The Black Lion is fully fixed six days later. The customary note is slightly crumpled where it sticks to his headrest, as if it had been smashed on. Shiro had no idea handwriting could feel so pissed off.I JUST INSTALLED THAT A WEEK AGO.
Relationships: Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Series: VLD One-Shots [34]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/876162
Comments: 69
Kudos: 367





	missed communication

**Author's Note:**

  * For [coffeeonthebrunhild](https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeeonthebrunhild/gifts).



> so a year ago i wrote [a fic thread](https://twitter.com/redluxite/status/1088134626088955905) about pilot!shiro and mechanic!keith, and sunday requested it as a fic!! so here it is in fully detailed glory, disaster gay shiro and all XD thank you so much for asking me to write this, sunday, and i'm really happy you like it ^__^
> 
> i tried my best to smudge a paw print on that last note LOL. making those extras was a lot of fun. the concept of communicating via sticky notes was inspired by one of my favorite 00q fics ("by no ordinary means of communication" by laughtershock). please appreciate the punny title. the fandom could use something sweet right now, so i hope you all enjoy this!!

* * *

Shiro’s not expecting the note.

His combat flyer is finally back in his possession after he’d turned it in for maintenance and repair following his last mission. It had, on paper, been relatively straightforward, but Shiro’s flown enough times over enough years to know most missions — at least, the type his kind gets — are never just _straightforward_ here at the Galaxy Garrison: Terran Space Exploration and Defense Force _._ And yes, perhaps he’d been a _little_ flashy in his maneuvering on the cargo interception turned flyer chase turned ionfight. In his defense, though, Reatis smugglers fly _fast_.

The Black Lion is now back in her hangar, freshly patched-up and ready for their next commission. Shiro climbs in, checking her over — and then blinks in surprise when he finds a sticky note pressed to the console.

 _Stop accelerating so much,_ it reads in hurried red script, _your throttle caps are a mess._

Shiro recalls his altercation with smugglers, and the stop-start bursts of speed he’d judiciously applied to enable his escape. The apology automatically jumps to the tip of his tongue. Then he realizes no one’s _actually_ here scolding him and snorts lightly in amusement.

It’s with some fondness that he takes the sticky note, folds it up, and tucks it in the pocket of his uniform. He’s never met the mechanics in charge of flyer repair and maintenance, but he thinks he wouldn’t mind meeting this one. Still, it’s an idle thought at best, and one he tucks to the back of his mind as he thumps the Black Lion on the hull before leaving.

(Besides, it’s not as if he can actually _follow_ the instruction. Acceleration is half the fun of piloting a combat hyperspin flyer, after all.)

He doesn’t think of it much until after his next mission. Two weeks later, Shiro parks the flyer in the repair bay, patting the console gently as he powers down the Black Lion. Something rattles faintly as the systems disengage and shut off. He’s about to climb out, but hesitates, brow furrowed at the circuitry embedded into the side console of the cockpit. Then he rummages around until he comes up with a pad of sticky notes and a black marker.

 _Might wanna check the hyperdrive_ , he writes out, _it’s making a funny noise._

He tacks the note onto the dashboard, then hoists himself out and down to the ground. He _technically_ has to debrief with Iverson first, but it’s ass o’clock at night and Shiro doesn’t want to have to explain the unauthorized warp that had undoubtedly shown up on his flight log. Especially since he doesn’t have very good justification.

He pats the Black Lion on the flank before taking the back way to the pilots’ dorm. He can debrief in the morning.

“Good evening, Captain Shirogane,” Veronica says politely, just as Shiro’s about to unlock his dorm room. He flinches, then hastily recollects himself.

“Veronica!” he replies, turning around and flashing his most winning grin. Veronica looks distinctly unimpressed beneath her diplomatically-pleasant facade.

“The Commander’s office is at the other end of the building,” she points out, and Shiro’s grin fades in a heavy exhale.

“Yes ma’am,” he mutters, obediently trotting after her.

He gets his flyer back four days later, after Iverson had blown a gasket and threatened to suspend him for a week. As he checks the Black Lion over, he finds his sticky note now taped over the hyperdrive panel, with his original message scratched out.

 _I know how to do my job, thanks_ , reads the reply scrawled underneath. _What are you even doing to this flyer?? That hyperdrive was fine last time I checked._

Shiro purses his lips and thinks about the emergency warp he’d had to pull off to escape the Aadvarkian bandits who definitely should _not_ have been alerted to his presence. He grimaces, feeling rather contrite. Somehow he feels more chastised by three sentences in red ink than he does by Iverson’s entire spiel about _Garrison directives_ and _pilot responsibility_ and _something something accountable for your own actions_. Or by Pidge’s shrill horror at how he’d managed to damage his hyperdrive _yet again._

He briefly considers leaving an apology note, but he also figures actions will speak louder than words. If he brings back his flyer in good condition next time, surely that will appease his mystery mechanic. And win him some brownie points. And save him another dressing-down to Iverson’s office, because Matt has been making wisecracks about how he might be single-handedly responsible for giving the man an aneurysm in the near future.

In hindsight, Shiro has no idea where that blaze of profound naivety had come from.

A week later, Shiro finally docks his flyer in the repair bay at three in the morning, quietly hoping the smoke leaking from the left wing doesn’t attract any unwelcome attention. He swears he hadn’t intended for one of the hyperspin engines to blow out, or for the wing flaps to break off, or for the — really, the important thing is that he’d made it back alive and with _most_ of the craft intact. Sort of.

Shiro leans out of the flyer, intending to disembark, and discovers a massive dent just under the rim of the cockpit.

He sits back down, snags a sticky note, and scratches out a quick _Really sorry._

He’s extra careful sneaking back to his quarters, because if Pidge catches him and discovers the shape he’d left one of her _prized hyperspin flyers_ in yet again, he’ll have worse than the collection of bruises blooming under his uniform.

In the end, Pidge comes for his ass anyway. 

Shiro should have figured Matt would sell him out, the traitor.

“You didn’t even _have_ to tell her,” he tells his friend, once Pidge has released him from her irate sermon about Shiro’s _distinct lack of respect for Garrison property_. (Honestly, Pidge is one to talk, but Shiro hadn’t been about to bring that up when she had a number of tools at her disposal to throw at his head.)

“You didn’t have to steal from my stash of juniper candy,” Matt replies casually, without even looking up from his screens, “yet here we are.”

Shiro can’t even respond to that. He has no idea what he’d done to deserve such petty friends. He’s a perfectly nice person.

(He _did_ steal some of Matt’s juniper candy, but Matt had also taken the last of his Mars Bars, so fair’s fair really.)

He heads to the hangar five days later, after Veronica informs him he’s cleared to return to work and the Black Lion’s been patched up. But as Shiro wanders in, he finds there’s a small part of him that’s looking forward to seeing if he gets a response from his mystery mechanic.

Shiro hefts himself up, peers into the cockpit — and snorts a laugh.

There’s a sticky note smacked to the headrest with four words scrawled in angry, heavy red script.

_You’d fucking better be._

Still, the flyer is in pristine condition, so perhaps Mystery Mechanic isn’t _too_ pissed off. Hopefully.

One by one, the sticky notes become a regular part of Shiro’s life. He doesn’t even know the name of the mechanic in charge of his flyer — and hopefully it’s just the one person, because if the entire maintenance staff of the Garrison is pissed off with him for the constant damage he sustains, Shiro might seriously consider changing divisions. Or careers. He knows whoever this is has a sense of humor, at least ( _I said bring back the turbo booster in one piece, not “bring back just one piece”_ , reads the latest note on his headrest). He also knows they’re extremely good at their job, since the Black Lion always comes back to him all patched up and flight ready. 

And just for that, he tries — honestly, he does. He makes an effort to do better, be more responsible, and not get the Black Lion beat up so much. The thing is (as he tells Iverson, Pidge, and Veronica, in that order) shit happens. The nature of his job as a Garrison combat flyer means he’s not always successful at minimizing the damage. Between all the crossfire and the reckless maneuvers and all-around action, it’s inevitable that his flyer — well.

 _Sorry about the stabilizer,_ he writes with a wince.

The Black Lion is fully fixed six days later. The customary note is slightly crumpled where it sticks to his headrest, as if it had been smashed on. Shiro had no idea handwriting could feel so pissed off.

_I JUST INSTALLED THAT A WEEK AGO._

__

The weeks go by. The notes between him and his mystery mechanic come and go. And Shiro has to admit, if just to himself, they’re becoming one of his favorite parts of his missions. He looks forward to it now, both leaving a note and getting one in return, even if he’s never met this person. He’s aware it would be pretty simple for him to ask Veronica who the mechanic in charge of his flyer is, or even look it up in the Garrison’s database. But something in him wants to keep the mystery going just a little longer. It’s like a dance, this oddly endearing back-and-forth with sticky notes and apologies and banter. And Shiro isn’t ready to put a face to the handwriting and end the dance just yet.

The pile of sticky notes grows, hiding in the drawer of the desk in his dorm. Shiro has to restock his own pad after a few months. He saves every note he gets — the cranky ones, the joking ones; the ones reminding him to _be more careful with these, how the fuck do you have a license to fly?_ He really hopes the person on the other end is enjoying this as much.

He hopes each note is never the last.

( _See? All good,_ he writes out smugly as he docks an intact flyer into the hangar the next week.

 _Half your navigation rig was broken_ , is the reply, which. Well. It isn’t like Shiro even uses that, so how was he supposed to notice? Exactly.)

One time, his mission goes particularly badly.

If he’s honest — brutally, painfully honest — the way his trembling hands and mile-a-minute heartbeat are honest — Shiro would admit he didn’t think he’d make it back this time.

It’s his fault, he knows. Between his cockiness and his presumptions, he’d underestimated both the mission and the target. He’d had no way of knowing the Axstrazi would have Quillurant mercenaries for hire as their guards, but he still shouldn’t have been so cavalier. He should have scouted more — should have dug for more information — should have put in more effort at stealth — should have—

The repair bay looks especially bleak in the grey light of dawn as Shiro docks his half-ruined flyer in her bay. Still-shaking fingers pry his helmet from his head, making him wince when he feels the areas tacky with blood. It takes him a few minutes to blink away the dizziness, eyes readjusting to the lack of a visor. 

He needs to head to the recovery ward. He needs to debrief with Iverson and turn in his after-action report. He needs to check in with Matt.

He fumbles around for a sticky note. Clumsy fingers smudge the ink, writing nearly illegible.

_If she’s not salvageable, it’s fine. I’m sorry._

It takes a phenomenal amount of effort to heft himself out of the cockpit, and he stumbles as his feet hit the floor. For a few moments he lets himself lean against the dented, pockmarked body of his flyer, breathing in and out of empty spaces until the throbbing in his bruised ribs has eased.

“We’re okay,” he tells the Black Lion quietly, knocking a fist against still-warm metal. His touch lingers a little as a tiny part of his mind wonders if this is the last he’ll see of her. She’s his first and only flyer, and he still remembers the first time he’d taken her for a flight. Getting up in the air, the horizon stretching before him, out and out and out. The unbridled sense of _freedom_ he’d felt, knowing he could go anywhere and everywhere from here. They’ve seen each other through countless missions since, and she’s never let him down. He can’t say the same for himself as her pilot, though.

Exhaling long and slow, Shiro strains his muscles to bring himself back upright. He aches in a dozen different places, and no doubt he’ll be grounded for the near future, but right now all he wants to do is sleep. Mercifully, no one bothers him as he slowly, gingerly makes his way out of the hangar and back to his room.

He doesn’t bother changing, out cold almost before his head hits the pillow.

(Back at the hangar, calloused fingers run over the now-cold metal of the combat flyer, assessing the damage. Curious, sympathetic eyes glance at the bay doors, before the person hefts themselves up into the cockpit. Shiro’s sticky note lies where it’s fallen off the headrest to the seat.

“Looks like we’ve got our work cut out for us, huh,” says a soft voice. There’s a muffled _whuff_ in response.

The sticky note gets tucked into a tool box, joining a growing stack of notes written in blocky black letters. The noise of tools at work fills the air as sunlight fills the hangar.

Back in his dorm, Shiro sleeps on.)

Later that afternoon, Iverson informs Shiro that he’s on enforced medical leave for two weeks. This is, for Shiro, usually worse than any disciplinary sanction he might have received. He hates being grounded the most — hates losing the ability to fly, even temporarily, even just for fourteen days. He tries arguing that he’s not even _that_ badly hurt (lie, but he’s flown with worse), but Iverson fixes him with a withering look. Shiro has no choice but to comply.

Veronica smiles sympathetically as she collects his after-action report, but Shiro can’t sway her either.

He spends the first week in the recovery ward, grumbling at Matt every time his friend drops by. After the Garrison doctors release him (probably as much for their fraying patience as Shiro actually being well enough to leave), he returns to physical training. Matt and his dad have him run simulation flights, checking his reflexes and making sure none of his piloting abilities have been compromised by injury. Not that Shiro would have ever allowed that, but better safe than sorry.

By the time Dr. Holt clears him for active duty, Veronica has already come and informed him that his flyer is in its hangar. Despite his eagerness to be back in space, though, Shiro avoids heading down for a few more days. He claims additional recovery time, simulation practice, whatever other excuse he can come up with. He’s not dreading it — he’s not. Just a little apprehensive.

(Whatever he needs to tell himself.)

Still, he can’t stay away forever, because he can’t stay grounded forever. Sixteen days after he’d returned to the Garrison in half a wreck, Shiro makes the trip down to the hangar. It feels a little like walking towards an execution. He squeezes his eyes shut as he rounds the corner. Tells himself it’s a perfectly reasonable expectation for a new ship to be sitting in place of his old one. Inhales, exhales; braces himself and his stupidly attached heart. 

Inside the hangar, Shiro cracks open his eyes.

The Black Lion sits proudly under the lights, good as new.

He blinks, mouth half-open in shock and disbelief. His flyer is — intact, repaired, _fine._ Frozen to the spot, Shiro runs his eyes over the flightcraft from tip to tail. There are some changes — something different about the wings, the weapons — but it’s.

It’s his flyer. His pride and joy. His freedom. And it’s here.

He walks over, lifting a hand to the hull, hovering for a moment as if afraid to touch. (And Shiro is — half of him is still convinced this is a dream, that when he tries to touch the flyer it’ll crumble and leave him grounded for the rest of his life.) It takes more courage to close the distance than it does for Shiro to enter an ionfight. But under his palm the metal is cool and solid and _real,_ and Shiro breathes out in relief.

He hoists himself into the cockpit, searching, because surely his mystery mechanic has left an angry remark, a threat, an entire lecture — anything.

He almost misses it, but there’s a sticky note sitting on the inside of the canopy. He plucks it off, settling into his seat.

 _Don’t let anyone know, but I upgraded your shields,_ it says. _And your blasters. Also, you owe me overtime pay._

Shiro reads the note once, twice. Then he leans back in his seat and laughs.

“We owe him one, don’t we, girl,” he murmurs, running a hand over the armrest. Then he leans forward, flattening a palm over the console. The Black Lion’s system whirs to life, lighting up under his touch. A quick rundown confirms everything is in perfect working order. Whoever this person is, Shiro owes them more than overtime pay.

 _Thank you,_ he thinks as he powers his flyer down. He’s extra careful as he tucks today’s note into his pocket, feeling for the first time a strong and wistful urge to find his mystery mechanic and tell them that in person. He doesn’t know if they’d understood just how important the Black Lion is to him, or if they’d just been determined to prove something by fixing a half-ruined flyer instead of just building a new one from scratch. Part of him _wants_ them to understand; wants them to realize just how grateful he is for what they’ve done.

The next time he docks for maintenance — just a routine check, this time, and minor repairs to one of the tailfins — he leaves a bottle of Martesian vodka in the chair. The sticky note curls around the glass.

_No idea how much your salary is. Hope this is enough?_

He gets the notification that his flyer’s fixed in two days. He jogs over quickly, eager to see the reply, to see if his peace offering has been accepted. Sure enough, the bottle is gone, and in its place is the familiar yellow sticky note. There’s a smudge of red on one corner; upon closer inspection, it looks rather like a paw print.

_I guess I can forgive you._

Shiro grins and folds up the sticky note, tucking it into his breast pocket. He pats the canopy as he disembarks, then goes to see if he can’t bother Iverson into giving him a new mission brief.

Of course, the next mission has him returning to the Garrison with a broken tailfin and a series of cracks spiderwebbing out on his canopy. Shiro is extra apologetic as he leaves a box of chocolates on the pilot’s seat. He doesn’t tack on a sticky note this time, because honestly there’s only so many times he can apologize before he starts worrying his mechanic is getting fed up with him.

The chocolates are gone when he gets his flyer back, but there’s a sticky note in their place that reads _Are you serious._

He muffles a snort as he clambers back out, note pinned between his fingers.

Shiro finally gets to meet his mystery mechanic on an early Thursday evening.

It’s mid-afternoon, but Shiro’s already finding himself at loose ends. He’s between missions at the moment, on unnecessary (in his opinion) downtime while waiting for his flyer to be repaired. Veronica had kicked him out of the training bay half an hour ago because “you are injured, Captain. _Injured._ Go rest for once in your life.”

He’d tried to argue that it was really just a sprained shoulder, and really, he’d fought through much worse. Besides, it’d be useful to learn to fight through injury, especially since he won’t always be flying in ideal—

At that point, Veronica had given him a Look. And Shiro had backed away hastily, suddenly remembering something he’d forgotten in his room, look at the time, good night.

(It’s actually half past three, but technicalities, technicalities.)

Now, though, Shiro finds himself bored, and restless, and very seriously considering going to bother Matt in the communications array to have _something_ to do. But eventually, wandering feet bring him all the way down to his designated hangar.

He figures he can check on the Black Lion since he’s down here anyway. And it’d still count as _resting,_ thanks very much.

When he gets to his docking spot, though, he gets very distracted, because the outside hatch is open and there’s a _very_ nice ass in black jeans sticking out of it.

Shiro stares. And keeps staring. And then steps on a magnetic screwdriver, which sends him toppling backwards to the floor in a _whump._

Really Nice Ass Person jolts, pulling back out of the hatch with a startled _the fuck?_ and—

(Oh. Oh wow he’s gorgeous.)

Really Nice Ass Person cocks an eyebrow. Shiro realizes he might have said that out loud.

“I, ah.” Shiro internally winces (he’s been doing that a lot over the last several months, he notes), and offers up a sheepish smile. In his defense, though, the guy — Shiro’s fairly sure it’s a guy — is really pretty. _Incredibly_ pretty. It doesn’t help at all that he’s currently haloed in the hangar lights, and has the face of an angel, and his legs go on for miles. Shiro feels he can be forgiven for taking a while to stop staring.

“I’m guessing you’re Captain Shirogane,” Angel Face finally deadpans after the silence has stretched on and Shiro remains incapable of basic etiquette.

“Hi,” Shiro says in all eloquence, eloquently.

There is another pause.

“...do you need help getting up?” Angel Face asks, gesturing to where Shiro is still sitting on his butt.

“No,” Shiro replies faintly. “No, I’m good.”

He still isn’t getting up.

What finally breaks his daze is something — big and furry, and _heavy,_ invading his personal space and sticking something spongy and wet against his cheek. Shiro jerks back, adamantly _not_ yelping, and smacks a hand to damp skin. He gets a very pleased _whoof_ in response.

When he’s got his senses back in order, Shiro realizes there’s a Rhokhairi wolf beside him.

“Hey — Kosmo, quit it,” Angel Face calls as he dismounts his stepladder.

Well, that explains the paw print.

Eventually, the wolf gets bored of investigating Shiro. It bounds off, leaving Shiro to heave himself to his feet. He hesitantly heads over to where the mechanic is stepping away from his flyer, wiping his hands on a spare cloth.

“She okay?” Shiro asks, glancing up at the flightcraft. Even with the boosted shields, his last mission had been rough, and he’d taken some heavy fire. The mechanic looks at him slantwise for a moment, then shakes his head, amusement tucked in one corner of his lips.

“I was going to leave you a note,” he admits, gesturing towards the cockpit, “but since you’re already here, I might as well tell you.”

Shiro nods, apprehensive.

“For fuck’s sake, I just replaced your throttle caps two weeks ago.”

Shiro blinks, then snorts, clapping a hand to his mouth in mortification. But a moment later the mechanic’s flat expression breaks into a grin, and then into a full-on laugh.

( _Oh._ That’s — okay, yeah. Shiro could stand to hear more of that in his life.)

“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Captain Shirogane,” the mechanic says when he’s calmed down. He extends one hand. Shiro’s mouth quirks.

“I’m just happy I can say thanks in person now,” he replies, taking the mechanic’s offered palm, feels work-worn skin and fingerless gloves. “But please, call me Shiro.”

The other man tightens his grip a moment. The corners of his eyes are crinkled, expression sweet.

“Keith.”

When Veronica finally lets him know the Black Lion is repaired, Shiro nearly sprints down to the hangar to check his flyer out. And sure enough, there’s a sticky note on the console. This time, though, instead of the usual quip about the state of his flyer, Keith has written his Garrison messenger ID.

 _To save the environment_ , he’s scrawled underneath. There’s a partial paw print on the corner.

Shiro grins and pockets the note with great care, patting the console in self-congratulations. Then he trots off to go pester Iverson for a new mission. The sooner he gets back from one, the sooner he has an excuse to message his mechanic about dinner.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading!! aaaaa i hope that was fun (pls let me know you had fun ^^;;). come say hi on twitter — i'm [@redluxite](https://twitter.com/redluxite), and i'm mostly yelling about haikyuu, sheith, and bnha. you can check there for ways to support my writing (or request more sheith content)!


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